The Express Diaries

by Nick Marsh

  ‘Ahh, a long story,’ Sebastiano beamed as he showed us rows of prosthetic limbs, a sideline the company began after Napoleon’s Italian campaign. ‘Too long to tell in such a dusty old building! Why don’t we talk about it tonight, at dinner?’

  So, it was agreed. Dinner tonight at Sebastiano’s home. We returned to the Gritti palace feeling like we had achieved something useful, and now we are getting ready for our evening out. Grace is in a snit as Neville borrowed Milos for the rest of the afternoon so he could help translate Alphonse’s notes - I suspect Grace was hoping to get Milos to herself!

  From the Journal of Violet Davenport, Monday, 9th November 1925

  Dear Diary,

  A wonderful evening. Sebastiano and his family were delightful, patient hosts. His wife, Maria, is very beautiful and elegant, despite her advanced years – hard to believe her and Auntie Betty are almost the same age!

  Speaking of Auntie – she got rather tipsy again this evening, ending up cajoling Milos to take off his balaclava. He politely declined, saying it was not a fit sight for the dinner table. If Sebastiano and Maria were taken aback by this behaviour, they did not show it. I suppose the Italians are, in general, more broad-minded than the English. Eventually, Auntie calmed down (or, at least, fell into a stupor) and we began to talk about the doll works. After dinner, and with the lights burning low, Sebastiano told us the tale of Conte Alvise de Gremanci.

  Reputedly, the Conte, who either founded or somehow gained control of the business in the late 1700s, was a sorcerer. Writing this down now, it seems rather silly, but Sebastiano is an excellent storyteller and, for the evening at least, I believed him.

  Although his dolls were of excellent quality, the Conte’s reputation in Venice was a dark one. Over time, rumours began to circulate that far from being children’s toys, the dolls were magically-imbued containers, designed to ensnare and trap his victim’s souls. People whispered that the Conte made dolls modelled upon his political and personal enemies. He would then deface or damage the dolls with pins or fire, and soon afterwards his enemies would meet a swift, grisly demise.

  Apparently, the old man didn’t confine himself to dolls - he also made automatons; singing birds and moving mechanical people, with such precision and craft that they at first seemed alive – so much so that the more superstitious amongst the population declared that he was using magic to give them a blasphemous, shadowy life of their own.

  At the end of the eighteenth century, the French invaded, and Napoleon’s soldiers recognised the excellence of the Conte and his artisans’ work. They bought gifts for children, and mistresses, and soon his dolls were in every fashionable Parisian nursery, and so the Gremanci name became known far and wide.

  Sebastiano didn’t know the eventual fate of his mysterious ancestor, but he disappeared around a hundred years ago, amidst whispers of his crumbling mental state.[39]

  Well, quite a character! I don’t think I would talk about him quite so readily as Sebastiano does if he was lurking in the distant branches of my family tree, but I think he likes the darkness and mystery of the man. He certainly sounds like the sort of person that would be involved with this horrible statue we are searching for.

  Uncle Neville and Milos then asked Sebastiano if there was any way that we would be able to look through the company’s accounts, explaining a little about the Simulacrum, and that they thought Sebastiano’s ancestor may have come across a piece when Napoleon’s soldiers invaded. Although we made it quite clear that we were willing to pay, Sebastiano would not hear of it, and told us to come to the doll works tomorrow, where he would happily show us where the records vault was.

  And so we agreed, the ladies would look around the doll house and discuss the doll they would like for Auntie Betty’s ‘poor, ill grand-daughter’, whilst the gentlemen would examine the records and see what they could discover. I don’t know which sounds less fun – there’s something very creepy about dolls. Perhaps I’ll ask to join the men in the vault. I do manage the accounts for the business, and I know my way around a ledger.

  In the gondola on the way back to the Gritti palace, my sense of smell was finally vindicated. This time, no one could deny the stench that rose from the canal, as it was much stronger than it had been the day before. The water was oily, black and sluggish, and even the gondolier agreed that it was not normal.

  We travelled back to the hotel, wondering if we would hear screams echoing through the city again, but only Auntie Betty’s snores broke the silence.

  Milos Valinchek’s Personal Journal (translated from Czech) Monday 9th November

  A day of discovery, mystery and horror. What have these people found themselves mixed up in?

  There was another murder last night, a man stolen from the arms of his sweetheart by a ‘frenzied beast’. The inhabitants of Venice are becoming restless, and fearful, and it is not a good thing to be a stranger in such a city. Fortunately, we will leave soon, and from what I know now, I suspect the killings will stop as well. At least, in Venice they will stop.

  Our group was subdued after Signor Gremanci’s gracious hospitality last night, and for good reason. Enough alcohol was consumed for an army group! But why not? We know what comes after the eating, drinking, and being merry.

  In the morning we returned to the doll works. The mood in the city was ugly on the trip, and we saw a group of people throw a running man into the canal – which now smells foul even in the foggy winter air. We were surprised to find the factory doors locked once again. Sebastiano met us at the entrance and explained that the artisans have not come to work today, wishing to stay at home with their families.

  We expressed our concerns for his business, but Sebastiano, ever optimistic, brushed it off as a ‘passing matter’. He showed us to the vault – a tiny, ancient room filled with piecemeal records in no sane order. The colonel, Mrs Davenport and Grace, all having experience in accounting and filing, set at the pile of papers at once, whilst I helped where I could with translations – Sebastiano having business to attend to in the office with his uncle. Mrs Sunderland was sadly waylaid by a migraine for most of the morning and long into the afternoon.

  After several hours of searching, Mrs Davenport and Grace found two references that were of interest to us. The first was a yellowed receipt listed under ‘sundry expenses’ for August, 1797, regarding an ‘artificial leg’ bought from a French soldier (who left 100 lire richer and sporting a new wooden leg). The clerk records that the limb was composed of some strange ceramic material of unusual design.

  The second was from November, 1810, and records that the leg of a statue in the courtyard of the Palazzo Rezzoniani[40] had become damaged in a lightning storm. For reasons which were unclear from the ledger we found, the Conte de Gremanci was ordered to replace it within twenty-four hours or face charges of treason.

  Within hours, the Conte produced a limb of the exact dimensions required, of an ‘odd ceramic cast’, and himself secured it to the statue so cunningly that none could find fault in it. The charges against the Conte were dropped.

  A peculiar story, leaving many questions, the answers of which are likely now lost in the mists of time. The Conte seemed to have a way of invoking people’s ire. I wonder if he was glad to rid himself of the leg he had procured thirteen years previously?

  It was mid-afternoon by the time we had finished our researches. When we emerged from the factory, the air was clearer – the fog had begun to lift, though the sky was darkening. We discussed visiting the palazzo in the morning but soon realised that all of us felt similarly uneasy about the mood of the city, and decided that we would like to conclude our business and leave as quickly as possible. We took a water taxi from the doll works directly to the Palazzo Rezzoniani in the hopes of a swift completion of our errand.

  A quarter of an hour later, we stood next to the large, ancient building (fifteenth century, the taxi driver assured us). Although open to visitors all summer long, the palazzo was now closed for the winter.
The taxi driver told us that the caretaker lived nearby, and that we may gain entry via appointment. Mrs Sunderland, paying the man and sending him on his way, seemed to think that would not be necessary.

  The front doors were made of bronze, intricately carved with a huge lion gripping the door knocker in his mouth. As we examined it, Mrs Sunderland called to us from a side door in a nearby alley.

  ‘This one was open!’ she exclaimed, although I’m certain she was slipping a hat pin back into her handbag.

  ‘Should we just go in without asking?’ Violet said. ‘Surely the caretaker--’

  ‘I don’t think we need to go and bother some old caretaker,’ Grace said. ‘He’d be much happier huddled up in his home.’ She said this with a heavy emphasis suggesting she felt the same way. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘It’s not as if we’re here to steal anything.’

  ‘Well,’ she said after we were all silent for a moment, ‘not anything that anyone sane would want to steal, anyway.’

  As night fell and the full moon rose, we explored the rooms of the palazzo. There were no corridors – rooms opened directly to further rooms, all grand, rich, and high. It was extremely cold, and our breath froze in the air as we walked. In all those fine chambers, we didn’t find a single statue, nor even a bust. Nothing at all - until we entered the courtyard.

  It was a vast square, bound on all sides by the wings of the silent, looming palace, and on every free portion of wall, crowded into every nook and cranny, were statues. Thousands of them. Stacked, bracketed to the walls on every storey, a crazy jumbled pattern of stone and metal bodies stared down upon us, menacing in the moonlight. No design seemed to have been followed in their placements. Some hung upside down, some on their side – in the corners they were piled five or six deep, covered with a rime of ice. It was the playground of a madman. We stood in silence, taking in the bizarre sight.

  ‘But... how on earth are we supposed to find--’ Violet began, but she was interrupted by a great clanking of gears from somewhere above us. Looking up, we saw a campanile, some five stories up, and as we watched a pair of figures jerked into view in front of the immense clock face. A winged angel, sword in hand, and cloaked, hooded Death, holding his scythe, stood before each other. They began a slow, mechanical battle, whilst the chimes for six o’clock pealed across the courtyard. After a brief struggle, the angel retreated. It appeared that Death was victorious.

  ‘Where is more likely to be struck by lightning,’ I suggested, ‘than a clock tower?’

  * * * * *

  It was colder still within the tower, and our echoing footsteps on the stone flagstones made it seem as if we were entering a tomb.

  ‘Just the sort of bloody place that statue would like to lurk,’ the colonel said as we began to ascend.

  ‘Neville!’ Mrs Sunderland said, sharply.

  ‘Oh, sorry, ladies,’ he said. We climbed in silence from then on. The steps were narrow, and tall – they must have been a foot high each. Thankfully someone at a later date had installed metal railings beside the stairs, or I doubt that the colonel or Mrs Sunderland could have reached the top. As it was, the steps became narrower on the fifth floor so that the colonel and I had to climb the last flight sideways.

  Eventually, we reached a narrow landing, where a set of wooden steps led to a trap door in the roof. I climbed up and tested the trap door. It was padlocked, but a heavy shove with my shoulder shattered the rusted metal. As I swung the metal door aside, we heard the clunking of the massive gears echo in the room above.

  The clock room would have been completely lightless were it not for the full moon outside shining through the glass face of the clock – having come directly from the doll factory, we had not thought to bring torches. We had to stoop under huge rotating cogs, and climb over flywheels and gears protruding from the floor. Overall, the room gave one the impression of ponderous, inevitable motion – as if we had clambered into the heart of a giant. Below the face of the clock, six human-sized figures stood silently, weapons glistening in the near darkness. Grace stifled a cry when she saw. We had discovered the figures that emerged when the clock chimed - as we had seen in the courtyard below.

  Moving closer, we could make out their individual features in the dim light – as well as Death and his celestial foe, there stood a young rustic man, carrying a bow and grapple, next to a young woman. She was grinning, and holding her leg before her, trapped in an eternal dance. Beside them a huge winged lion, snarling and with its front paw outstretched, and a tall warrior, armed with a scimitar[41], faced each other in eternal enmity.

  ‘Well,’ said the colonel, breaking the deathly silence, and making us all jump. ‘It must be one of these. Let’s take a look.’

  He started forward to examine the figures more closely.

  ‘Be careful, colonel,’ Grace said, nervously.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Nothing up here now but cobwebs and--’

  As he spoke, the clockwork figures suddenly ground into motion as the quarter hour was reached. The warrior jumped forward, brandishing his scimitar. Grace and Mrs Sunderland screamed. The doors which led out to the face of the clock sprang open.

  And something was already out there.

  From my position, I could see out through the door and onto the track which the automatons moved along. In front of the clock face, five storeys up, stood a twisted, crab-like man, startled at his sudden exposure. He was dressed in tattered rags, and he stooped as if crippled by arthritis. His face, obscured though it was by the darkness, was dreadful to behold; misshapen and elongated, more like a beast’s than a man’s. I gaped in astonishment as his gaze turned to mine, and those deep-set red eyes were filled with such malice that I never wish to experience the like again. He saw the statue of the warrior that approached through the open door, and seemed paralysed by indecision. He licked his lips, briefly, with a long, thin tongue as red as blood, silhouetted against the full moon.

  Then he leapt backwards, off the ledge and to certain death more than a hundred feet below. The door closed, and the bells began to peal. As we stood, fingers in our ears, shouting to try and drown out the deafening noise, I caught the colonel’s worried expression and knew that he had seen the apparition on the ledge as well.

  The immense noise drove all thoughts from my mind, but just as I felt my skull would shatter from the vibrations, the bells stopped. The doors opened, and the lion and the warrior returned to their original positions.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Violet. ‘I think I’m deaf!’

  ‘Violet!’ Mrs Sunderland said.

  ‘Sorry, Auntie,’ she muttered. ‘Shall we find this leg and get it over with?’

  I was still shaken from what I had seen, but it was obvious that none of the women had spotted it. Not wishing to still be in the bell room when the half-hour was reached, we quickly checked over the figures. Only the warrior and the dancing girl had actual legs – the other statues having cloaks or robes that were carved as solid pieces. Remembering how the creature on the ledge had looked avariciously at the soldier, I examined him first. The legs were covered in gold paint, but scratching the surface of the left quickly revealed a dark, almost shimmering surface beneath.

  ‘Is this it?’ I asked. Mrs Sunderland peered at the leg.

  ‘That’s it!’ she cried, excitedly.

  The leg detached from the soldier surprisingly easily. I held our prize as we hurried out of the room and down the steps as quickly as we could. In the courtyard, everything was as it had been before; no broken body, no blood, no signs of impact at all. The colonel frowned as he surveyed the scene, obviously looking for the same thing I was. I glanced at him but he shook his head, looking pointedly at the ladies.

  The return to the hotel was uneventful, though I’m not sure how we would have explained the leg if any of the blackshirts had found it concealed within my trench coat. When we took it out again in Mrs Sunderland’s room, we discovered that all of the paint had fallen off on the journey – th
ough I could not find a speck of it inside my coat. The black, pearly surface seemed to swallow the light around it, and I won’t deny that I was relieved when Mrs Sunderland placed it in the trunk with the other pieces, and closed the lid. That damn thing has something about it...

  It is likely my imagination, fuelled by the vision on the ledge. That warped creature troubles me more than the Simulacrum. Something is following us. The professor knew it. The colonel had begun to suspect, and now we know for sure. What kind of creature can scale five storeys up the outside of a clock tower, in winter, and then survive a fall of a hundred feet or more onto cobbled stones? The same thing, I’ll wager, that can also butcher a man like a ‘frenzied beast’ and leave him on a spike high above the ground.

  What is this thing? Why did it not attack us in the campanile?

  What does it want with us?

  I can hear clamour and cries from the window. They’re rioting in the streets. I do not think they need to worry any more. We shall be leaving for Trieste tomorrow, and I suspect Venice’s problems will soon be over.

  Ours, I fear, are just beginning.

  Postcard sent from Grace Murphy to her Mother from Venice, 9th November 1925

  Dear Mother

  I think it may finally have happened!

  More later. Hopefully you will soon be able to tell father that you won the bet!

  Venice cold and wet. I hear Trieste is windy. I don’t seem to care so much anymore!

  Yours

  Grace

  P.S. He is from Czechoslovakia, and he is a Margrave!

  End of Part Five

  Interlude – Violet Davenport’s Dream Diary

  I was amongst a group of people, hurrying down a stone, torch-lit corridor; all around were screams, shouts, and manic laughter. As we walked, we passed thick wooden doors, bound in iron and with barred holes in the centre. None of our party spoke, and the mood was tense. Swiftly we descended two flights of stairs and the air around us grew chill. Ahead of us, three men stood nervously in the torchlight, staring at a door in front of them. The door was as thick and heavy as the others we had passed, and in front of it was a half-constructed brick wall. The door was in the process of being sealed shut with masonry.